


point a gun at the mirror

by cornflower_blues



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Bisexual Will Graham, Blow Jobs, Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalism, Dark Will Graham, Erotophonophilia, Established Relationship, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 04, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Jack finds out, M/M, Masochist Will Graham, Minor Jack Crawford - Freeform, Non-Consensual Spanking, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rimming, Switch Hannibal Lecter, Switch Will Graham, Will Graham Has Amnesia, aka will graham thinks about murder during sex, but a barely established relationship and the amnesia complicates things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27706679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornflower_blues/pseuds/cornflower_blues
Summary: Will Graham has amnesia. He wakes up to find out that he's just had sex with Hannibal Lecter, who he knows to be the Chesapeake Ripper and the man he's trying to hunt down with the FBI.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Bitter Rivals" by Sleigh Bells.
> 
> There's no non-con in this, but the beginning of the fanfic may be triggering. If you want to skip the first scene, there's a summary at the end!

Will Graham wakes up feeling safe, warm, and well-fucked. His whole body aches like he’s just had rough, very acrobatic sex. There’s a deep burn in his ass, his thighs are damp, and he’s sticky with sweat and lube. An arm is loped around his midsection, holding him tightly, and there’s a promising hardness pressing into him that he unconsciously pushes back against.

He wriggles backwards, his own cock starting to get interested again, when he feels a hot breath against his ear.

“Oh, Will,” a voice says with feeling.

Will freezes. He’d know that voice anywhere -– it’s the voice that narrates his thoughts. It’s Hannibal Lecter’s voice. Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal Lecter, who framed Will for the bloody, brutal murders that Hannibal had performed himself.

In a heartbeat, Will’s eyes are open and he’s struggling to get free of Hannibal’s grasp. He finds himself on a bare mattress on the floor of a room he’s never been in before.

“What the _hell_?” Will spits, jaw tense.

He’s never been this angry in his life. He feels intensely violated, feels dirty in the worst way possible.

“What’s the matter?” Hannibal asks, having the audacity to look wounded.

“First you force an ear down my throat, then you force yourself on me?” Will asks.

There are clothes scattered across the floor. Will isn’t sure which are his and which are Hannibal’s –- he doesn’t recognize any of them -– but he grabs a handful of them and heads to the hallway.

He spots an open door leading to a bathroom, and hurries in, shutting the door and locking it with a click. He turns the faucet, hoping to splash some cool water on his face, but no water comes out. Meeting his reflection’s gaze in the mirror, he starts – there’s a long gash running down his cheek, raw and recent, and another scar across his forehead, this one looking like it’s already started to heal.

How much time did he lose this time? Days? Weeks? Will thought the encephalitis was long gone; apparently not.

A loud pounding on the door knocks Will out of his reverie.

“I fear there’s been some misunderstanding,” Hannibal says from the hallway. “Please come out, and we’ll talk about it.”

“You’re the last person on Earth I want to talk to,” Will says with vitriol.

He scans the room, looking for a window to climb out of. His heart sinks when he realizes there isn’t one, just a window so tiny he wouldn’t fit through it, far up in the high-ceilinged room.

Sighing, he steps into the pants he’d grabbed earlier, throws on the shirt and starts buttoning it up.

“You just wait until Jack hears about this,” Will says, in the direction of the closed door.

“Jack Crawford?” Hannibal asks, sounding perplexed.

“No, Jack Frost,” Will says sarcastically. “And he _will_ hear about this.”

“I highly doubt that, given that I personally watched you destroy your phone yesterday,” Hannibal’s voice says through the door.

Will shrugs.

“Then I’ll use yours,” he says.

Hannibal pauses.

“I think your head injury is worse than I surmised at first,” Hannibal says finally. “I believe you’re suffering amnesia.”

“No shit,” Will says, frowning, looking in the mirror at his grubby face.

“Please, Will, come out and we’ll talk. I mean you no harm,” Hannibal says.

“Yeah, and I’m a monkey’s uncle,” Will responds sarcastically.

But he unlocks the door and throws it open, registering the surprise on Hannibal’s face for the split-second before he tackles Hannibal, throwing him up against the hallway wall.

“Tell me where we are and how to get home,” Will growls, voice low.

Hannibal looks directly at Will, and Will watches Hannibal’s eyes quickly fill with black.

“We’re somewhere safe, and there’s no going home now,” Hannibal says calmly.

He reaches a hand up to cup Will’s cheek, then, quick as lightning, he’s digging his nails into the open wound there.

Will hisses in pain, unintentionally loosening his grip on Hannibal. Hannibal grabs Will’s wrist with his other hand and twists hard, then wrestles out of Will’s grip.

Hannibal is still nude, Will notices. There are deep scratches down Hannibal’s back, the kind Will has been known to leave on his sexual partners. For a second, he questions his theory that Hannibal took advantage of him, but then he remembers how he’d questioned himself when he was in prison, remembers how Hannibal shoved that tube down his throat, and stops doubting himself. Hannibal probably put those marks on himself; he must have.

“You need rest, and your medication,” Hannibal says. “I won’t have you exerting yourself like this.”

“You seemed fine with me exerting myself earlier,” Will says, eyebrows raised.

“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t insisted,” Hannibal says. “I thought you were well enough. It turns out I was wrong.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dr. Lecter,” Will says.

Hannibal looks pained, tired.

“Trust me –- it is not a lie that you need your rest,” Hannibal says.

He turns his back on Will and heads into the bedroom. Will, as he listens to the sound of Hannibal unzipping something, he tiptoes down the hallway and follows it to a narrow stairwell, takes the stairs two at a time and bolts toward the front door.

“Will!” Hannibal calls out.

Will hears the thud of Hannibal’s footsteps on the stairs behind him, but Will doesn’t stop until he’s at the front door. He fumbles the door open and then he’s outside, the deep scent of pine invading his nostrils.

Tall trees surround the house in every direction. There’s no car in the gravely driveway. Will is about to sprint down the driveway anyway, see if it opens out onto a concrete road, somewhere he can flag down a car. But then he feels a prick like a needle in the back of his bicep. He turns around to see Hannibal looking triumphant and holding a syringe.

“You’ll rest now,” Hannibal says.

That’s the last thing Will remembers before he passes out.

* * *

When Will awakens, back on the bare mattress in the bedroom, it’s dark, almost pitch black. Hannibal isn’t in bed with him this time, but Will can faintly hear him downstairs, humming Vivaldi to himself.

Despite himself, Will’s hungry. He knows he can’t trust the meat, but maybe there’s something else to eat in the kitchen.

Slowly, quietly, trying to shift his weight so the stairs don’t creak, Will makes his way downstairs. It’s dark in every room, even down here, like either Hannibal doesn’t want to attract attention, or the electricity has been turned off.

“Ah, Will,” Hannibal says pleasantly. “Just in time to have a sandwich.”

“No thanks,” Will says, despite the way his stomach growls. “What’s in this one? Long pig? The other white meat?”

“Peanut butter and jelly,” Hannibal says with a straight face.

Will stops in his tracks, staring.

“You’re kidding,” he says, even though now he can smell the peanut butter.

“See for yourself,” Hannibal says, stepping aside.

On the kitchen counter, Will can dimly see a bag of Wonderbread and a plastic jar of peanut butter. He gapes openly.

“I’m dreaming,” Will says. “That’s the only way this could be happening. You’re too much of a pretentious prick to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches like the rest of us.”

“I assure you that you are very much awake,” Hannibal says.

Hannibal picks up a sandwich that’s been sitting on a paper plate on the countertop and takes a large bite, frowning in distaste.

Will’s stomach growls again, and despite himself, he steps forward to untwist the tie on the Wonderbread and grab two slices.

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asks as Will spreads peanut butter onto one of the slices.

“Cut the act,” Will says in response.

Hannibal’s mouth turns down.

“I see you’re still not feeling yourself,” he says. “There’s a walk-in clinic nearby. We’ll go tomorrow.”

Will looks up in surprise.

“I’m sure this benefits you somehow, letting me leave,” he says.

“Au contraire,” Hannibal says. “This could jeopardize the entire plan. But your injury is evidently more severe than I thought, and I don’t want you to suffer or die.”

Will scoffs, spreading grape jelly onto the other slice of bread.

“I’m sure you’d be beyond thrilled if I died,” Will says. “For one, you’d have something to eat other than peanut butter and jelly.”

Hannibal’s frown hardens, but he says nothing.

Will cuts his sandwich into two halves with a plastic knife and sets about looking for somewhere to sit down and eat. He’s not lucky: there’s seemingly no furniture in the entire house. Hannibal is eating standing up at the kitchen counter. It’s a far cry from the days of his elaborate dinner parties.

Will moves away from the kitchen, into one of the other empty rooms, wanting some space from Hannibal.

“There’s not much to do now except wait,” Hannibal says from the kitchen, “and sleep.”

“I’ll sleep down here from now on,” Will says, taking another bite of his dry sandwich.

“You’ll sleep on the floor, without a blanket?” Hannibal asks.

Will shrugs.

“I can make a pillow from my shirt and my socks. I’ve roughed it before; I’ll be fine,” he says.

Hannibal narrows his eyes but doesn’t respond.

Will feels the start of a pounding headache in his temples. On instinct, he reaches into his pants pocket for an aspirin, but finds the pocket empty.

“You told me that I’m taking medication for this head injury,” Will says slowly. “Does that include painkillers?”

Hannibal regards him with a blunt stare.

“Do you require more hydrocodone?” Hannibal asks.

The drug name sounds familiar; Will remembers that it’s a prescription painkiller.

“No, I’d rather stay lucid,” Will says. “I need an aspirin.”

“I’m afraid hydrocodone is all I have,” Hannibal says. “But perhaps we can pick up some aspirin tomorrow at the clinic.”

“Great,” Will says, clenching his jaw.

His headache is getting worse. He stuffs the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, chews, and swallows, eager to get back to sleep. If he’s going to be in pain, he’d rather just sleep it off; spending time with Hannibal instead would doubtless strengthen the ache in his head.

“I’m going to sleep,” Will announces. “Don’t even think about shooting me up with drugs again.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt, glad for the cover of darkness. He knows Hannibal has already seen him nude, but after what happened, Will doesn’t want Hannibal to start getting any ideas.

“The offer of sharing my bed still stands,” Hannibal says, lingering in the doorway from the main room to the kitchen. “You’ll be more comfortable there.”

“I’ll be more comfortable the further away from you I get,” Will says.

He slips off his socks and bunches them into his button-up shirt, then rolls the whole thing up. The floor is hard and wooden, and Will doesn’t relish spending the night tossing and turning on it, especially given the soreness in his temples. But he gets down onto the floor anyway, lies down and tries to get comfortable. He still has his pants on; he hadn’t grabbed any underwear when he rushed to dress earlier.

Hannibal sighs, and then Will hears the stairs creak and groan as Hannibal makes his way upstairs.

Will could make a run for it now. But he’d rather wait for the cover of daylight. And besides, he has a plan.

* * *

It’s past dawn, dozens of birds chirping animatedly outside, rays of cheerful sunlight finally seeping into the house. Will can see his surroundings clearly for the first time: the floor is sleek and wooden, and the walls are white and smell of fresh paint. This looks like a house nobody has ever lived in before.

Will’s temples still ache, and his whole body hurts from lying on the hard floor all night. His knees especially are killing him, feeling practically arthritic. Longingly, he thinks of soft sheets and big, fluffy pillows, thinks of his bed at home, thinks of his dogs. Then he makes up his mind.

Homemade pillow in tow, Will makes his way up the stairs and to the bedroom where Hannibal lies asleep on his side, snoring softly.

Will drops down onto the mattress and throws an arm over Hannibal, making the other man the little spoon this time.

Hannibal stirs, eyes fluttering open and regarding Will with confusion.

“I remember,” Will whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> n the first scene, Will discovers that he's just had sex with Hannibal Lecter. Since Will's mindset is firmly stuck in season 2, he assumes that Hannibal took advantage of him. He discovers that he has new scars, and assumes that he's lost time because of the encephalitis again. Will tries to escape, but Hannibal sedates him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Will makes his way up the stairs and to the bedroom where Hannibal lies asleep on his side, snoring softly. He drops down onto the mattress and throws an arm over Hannibal, making the other man the little spoon this time._

_Hannibal stirs, eyes fluttering open and regarding Will with confusion._

_“I remember,” Will whispers._

Hannibal lets out a shaky sigh, then turns so he’s facing Will, embracing Will hard. His lips are on Will’s before Will can draw back, and before Will knows it, Hannibal is tonguing at the seam of Will’s lips. Will figures this is a test: were he and Hannibal ever in a sexual relationship, or weren’t they?

He remembers, suddenly, the scratches down Hannibal’s back, just like the scratches Will has left on others before, and he opens his lips to let Hannibal lick inside. Will tries to forget that he’s making out with a notorious serial killer, tries to let himself enjoy this, but he’s still alarmed when a moan slips out of his lips unbidden.

Hannibal draws back, panting.

“I worried you might never come back,” he says, voice half-frenzied. “I worried you were gone, forever.”

Will shakes his head.

“I don’t remember everything,” he says, “Not yet. But I know enough.”

This isn’t true. Will doesn’t remember anything more than he did the day before. But there’s a safety in this, in letting Hannibal think that he knows something he doesn’t. Will thinks it will make it easier for him to escape.

Hannibal reaches out to one of Will’s hands and squeezes. Will feels overwhelmed from all the touch -– he desperately tries to stop the rush of dopamine he gets every time Hannibal touches him -- but he squeezes Hannibal’s hand back.

“You have no idea how worried I was,” Hannibal murmurs.

“It’s okay. I’m here,” Will tells him, drawing a hand down his cheek and kissing his forehead, pretending to be the man he’d apparently become in all the time he’d lost.

The thing is, Will’s starting to get the idea that he doesn’t want that man to come back.

Hannibal squeezes Will hard, closing his eyes.

“Your amnesia was the sign of a serious head injury,” Hannibal says. “We’ll go into town today, even if it means we won’t have time to deal with Bedelia before we leave the country.”

“Uh-huh,” Will says, trying not to voice his complete and utter confusion.

He’s glad that Hannibal still wants to go into town, because that should make it easier for Will to escape, to go home to his house and his dogs and his comfortable bed.

“But first, I think a shower is in order,” Hannibal says. “After breakfast, that is.”

Will is curious how they’re going to shower when the house that they’re staying in –- or is that squatting in? –- doesn’t appear to have running water. But he nods, slowly drawing his hands through Hannibal’s hair.

It’s startling how easy this is, touching Hannibal.

After a minute, Hannibal untangles himself from Will and goes over to a black duffel bag in the corner. He pulls out some folded clothes and steps into them as Will watches. The clothes turn out to be a leather jacket, a ratty white undershirt, and baggy jeans, a look so incongruous on Hannibal that Will can’t help but do a double take. He looks like some construction worker, not a doctor-turned-therapist, not a serial killer who listens to classical music and turns his victims into fancy meals with names only he can pronounce.

“Have you had enough sleep?” Hannibal asks.

“Sure,” Will replies, affecting a shrug.

In reality, his whole body aches badly and he feels the need for rest deep in his bones. But he doesn’t want to leave his body vulnerable and asleep in front of Hannibal Lecter. Who knows what Hannibal might do to him?

Hannibal smiles at Will, looking surprisingly genuine, as Will throws the shirt he’d been using as a makeshift pillow over his head. At the last minute, Will remembers that he’s supposed to smile back; he smiles widely, hoping Hannibal can’t tell that the happiness he’s projecting isn’t sincere.

They make their way back downstairs and into the kitchen, where Hannibal procures, of all things, a box of strawberry pop-tarts. They eat them cold and dry alongside bottled water. Hannibal has a virtual arsenal of water bottles stored on the counter near the microwave, enough to last them for weeks.

“I haven’t eaten like this since college,” Will remarks.

“I’m proud to say I’ve never eaten like this before,” Hannibal says. “The lack of meat in this diet is astounding, and this tasteless over-abundance of sugar nauseates me. I wish there had been more options at the Speedway.”

“Yeah, me too,” Will says, crunching on the last of his pop-tart.

“We’ll have our fill of meat soon,” Hannibal says. “I’m thinking of serving Bedelia’s leg as a luau with roasted pineapple and poke. That is, if you agree. Are you partial to Hawaiian food, Will?”

“Uh, of course,” Will says, starting to feel nauseated himself. “Sounds… delicious.”

“Then it’s settled,” Hannibal says.

Hannibal breaks down the pop-tart box and folds it, despite there being no recycling or trash cans in the kitchen to deposit it into. He leads Will into the main room, where two pairs of shoes are sitting by the front door. Hannibal starts lacing up a pair of black Converse All-Star high-tops. Will takes a gamble that the remaining hiking boots are his – they’re nice, tan and expensive-looking with cord laces, the kind of thing he would normally have loved to own.

“After you,” Hannibal says, once his shoes are fully laced.

Will realizes that, since there’s no car in the driveway, he has absolutely no idea where they’re going. He clears his throat.

“Just a second,” he fibs, leaning down and fiddling with the laces on one of his boots.

Hannibal, thankfully, doesn’t give Will a second glance or seem to find anything amiss. He simply brushes past Will and unlocks the front door, stepping out into the warm sunlight. Will sees that he’s carrying a few towels and a container of Irish Spring five-in-one body wash, the kind of thing that he imagines Hannibal would usually never be caught dead smelling like.

Not for the first time, Will wonders how they came to be in this place together. He wonders how Hannibal, always high and mighty, always flaunting his wealth, came to be essentially homeless, came to be wearing a ratty undershirt and jeans and washing with Irish Spring instead of something ten times more expensive.

They trek through the woods for a good half-hour, saying very little, Hannibal humming something classical under his breath that Will can’t quite place. As they walk, the foliage becomes slightly sparser and the dirt underfoot becomes sandier, and Will catches glimpses of the ocean in the distance. When the shade of the pines disappears, making way for sand dunes, Will wonders if Hannibal plans on bathing in the ocean.

But Hannibal doesn’t head straight for the water. Instead, he walks along the beach, still seemingly in great spirits despite the deep wound Will had spotted on Hannibal’s abdomen earlier.

Will has been walking slightly behind Hannibal this entire time, trying to hide the fact that he has no idea where they’re going. But once Hannibal reaches the beach, he stops and waits for Will, smiling gently and taking Will’s hand as soon as Will catches up. Hannibal entwines their fingers, slowing down his pace to walk more leisurely along the shore.

“I’m glad I could be here with you today,” Hannibal says softly.

“Me too,” Will replies.

They’re the only people on the beach, even though the shoreline extends for miles upon miles. The waves crash gently on the sand, and the early morning sun glints off the water, seagulls cawing overhead. This would be romantic if he were here with anyone except Hannibal Lecter. Will forces his tense muscles to relax, forces himself to give Hannibal’s hand a tender squeeze.

After they’ve walked on the shore for another half mile –- Will’s feet are getting sore in his stiff new boots, even though he’s used to regular exercise –- Hannibal turns into a small parking lot. There’s only one car in the lot, an old beat up Ford truck with nobody in it.

At first Will thinks they’re heading towards the car, but Hannibal walks past it, to a small sandy path leading to public showers. Suddenly the towels and body wash that Hannibal’s been carrying all this way make sense.

Hannibal takes off his jacket and lifts his undershirt over his head, and Will has to stop himself from staring at the play of his taut biceps, at the slightly round curve of his stomach.

“Well? Are you coming?” Hannibal asks, once he’s fully undressed.

Will clears his throat, avoiding looking at Hannibal. Somehow, he hadn’t imagined that they would shower together. It’s a level of intimacy that he’s not familiar with, not having even casually dated in years.

“Yeah, just give me a minute,” Will says, leaning down to untie his boots.

In the meantime, Hannibal steps under one of the showers and turns on the water.

Will takes his time undressing, hoping that Hannibal will finish showering by the time Will steps in. But Hannibal is evidently a fan of long, leisurely showers. He’s just starting to rinse shampoo out of his hair when Will steps into the spray.

Will grabs a dollop of body wash and starts massaging it into his scalp.

“Ah, allow me,” Hannibal says, and suddenly Hannibal’s hands are in his hair.

It’s been such a long time since Will’s been touched like this. He groans despite himself, feeling Hannibal’s nimble hands caressing lazy circles onto his scalp.

Hannibal smirks, squeezing more body wash into his hands and massaging Will’s chest. Will feels his face heating up and hopes Hannibal doesn’t notice the flush that travels down from his cheeks to his neck.

“Really, I can do this myself,” Will protests.

“Nonsense,” Hannibal says. “We’ve been holding ourselves back for so long, Will. Now that I have you to myself, I intend to touch you as much as humanly possible. I don’t ever intend to let you go.”

Hannibal’s words only cause Will’s blush to deepen. He tries to think of the last time someone talked to him like this, wonders desperately if anyone has ever talked to him like this in his life.

“Me neither,” Will stutters out, hoping that this is an appropriate answer.

Hannibal spreads the foamy body wash over Will’s abs, then lower, squeezing his balls slightly and loosely fisting his half-hard cock.

Will tells himself that he isn’t hard because of Hannibal. He’s hard because someone’s touching him, because anyone’s touching him; Hannibal’s dulcet words and loving gazes have nothing to do with it.

“I told you yesterday I’d return the favor,” Hannibal purrs, giving Will’s cock a few loose tugs.

“Yeah,” Will says. “The, uh, favor.”

“Unfortunately, I forgot the lube; it’s still at the house,” Hannibal says. “But there’s something else I’d like to try.”

He sinks to his knees in front of Will; Will stares openly. This can’t be happening, he tells himself. He knows he should say something to stop this, but with Hannibal essentially prostrating himself at Will’s feet, Will suddenly can’t find the words.

He’s had so many fantasies of this, of Hannibal submitting himself to Will: Hannibal bound with rope, Will’s hands around Hannibal’s throat, Hannibal entirely at Will’s mercy. It doesn’t matter, in this moment, that those fantasies were never sexual. It still feels like Will’s getting everything he ever wanted.

Hannibal leans forward, using one hand to play with Will’s balls as he sucks kisses up Will’s shaft. He meets Will’s gaze, eyes smoldering. Then he takes the head of Will’s cock into his mouth, cheeks hollowed as he slowly takes in more and more.

“Oh, shit,” Will says.

He’s not sure if he wants to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend Hannibal is someone else, or try to burn the image of Hannibal on his knees into his retinas so he’ll never see anything else again.

Hannibal takes Will in fully for one glorious second, Will’s cock deep in his tight throat, his nose flush with Will’s abdomen. Then Hannibal draws him out a bit, working up a rhythm.

Will’s far from a virgin. He’s had his cock sucked before, but he can’t ever remember it being this intense. Hannibal’s making hard eye contact, eyes black saucers as he bobs up and down on Will’s cock. With his other hand, he squeezes Will’s tightening balls, one of his fingers caressing Will’s perineum.

Hannibal, taking Will deep, he moans like sucking Will’s cock is the hottest thing he’s ever done. Will shudders as he imagines his hands squeezing Hannibal’s neck hard enough to leave mottled purple bruises. He imagines pressing a knife blade to the sensitive skin of Hannibal’s throat, releasing an arc of blood so pungent he can almost smell it.

Will, as Hannibal sucks his cock obscenely, he imagines fucking Hannibal’s mouth until the life burns out of his eyes, imagines Hannibal dying with Will’s cock still buried to the hilt in his throat. Will’s vision goes white for a second, and he cries out, shudders raking his body as he comes hard in Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal swallows.

Will takes a few seconds to come back to himself, panting hard, gasping slightly. He imagines that Hannibal probably wants something in return, but as he looks down at Hannibal’s crotch, he sees that Hannibal’s cock is already softening in Hannibal’s hand, cum painting Hannibal’s stomach white.

“Fuck,” Will says.

Obviously, Hannibal’s feelings for Will are more intense than Will ever realized. Had Hannibal wanted this the entire time they’d known each other? Had Hannibal set Will up, seen Will behind bars, just to jerk himself off hot and fast at night, thinking of Will’s cock filling his mouth?

Hannibal clears his throat and rises to his full height, rinsing himself off in the stream of the shower. Will follows suit, suddenly feeling awkward.

Without another word to Will, Hannibal steps out of the shower and starts toweling his hair dry. Will’s glad for the relative alone time, glad to have time to start processing what happened here in the shower.

Is Hannibal in love with him, Will wonders? He’s certainly in lust, that’s for sure.

“Are you almost ready to leave?” Hannibal asks, towel slung around his waist, combing through his short hair with his fingers. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“I’m coming,” Will says, and he shuts the water off.

He wonders what other surprises today will bring. After what just happened, he’s not sure anything is capable of surprising him anymore.

* * *

Instead of heading back to the house, Hannibal stops at the truck in the parking lot. The door is open; he climbs inside, taking one of his black high-tops off to retrieve the key that’s hidden inside his shoe.

“Well? Are you coming?” Hannibal asks, shoving his foot back into the shoe.

“Ah, of course,” Will says.

He heads to the passenger side and opens the door. The inside of the truck looks recently cleaned and smells strongly of ammonia; Will notices a fleck of blood that’s left on the rearview mirror and swipes it off with his thumb, then wonders what he’s doing.

He can’t start cleaning up Hannibal’s crime scenes. He can’t become the Will who Hannibal lusts after, the Will who might be Hannibal’s accomplice. He’ll do everything in his power not to become that man.

Hannibal is gazing at Will darkly. Before Will can even register what’s happening, Hannibal has grabbed Will’s wrist and brought it to his face, licking the blood off his thumb.

“You just sucked me off and now you want more?” Will asks before he can think better of it.

“I’ve been hungry for five long years,” Hannibal says. “Believe me, Will, having you in my mouth only once today is not going to be enough to satisfy the depths of my longing for you.”

Five years? Will starts. He’s barely known Hannibal for a year. When he found out that he’d lost time, he’d thought he lost days, or weeks at most, not entire years. What happened during all that time, during the four years that he’s lost? What happened that made him, a special agent for the FBI, fall into bed with a cannibal? What happened in all that time to make him forget who Hannibal really is?

Will’s utter shock must show on his face, because Hannibal sucks in a breath, then grabs Will’s wrist hard enough to bruise.

“When we’re in town, you won’t run,” Hannibal says, voice low and threatening. “You won’t scream. You won’t make a scene. You’ll do what I tell you.”

With his other hand, Hannibal reaches into his jeans pocket and procures a pocketknife that he flicks open, revealing a sharp, shiny blade.

“Have you seen the scar on your abdomen?” Hannibal asks. “I gave you that scar. I gave you the scar on your forehead, too, and I won’t think twice before giving you another.”

Will isn’t completely convinced that Hannibal could hurt him, given that Hannibal might even love him, but he doesn’t dare voice that thought.

“I understand,” Will says, jaw clenched, “as long as you understand that I might give you some scars of your own, Dr. Lecter.”

“Believe me, I have planned for that eventuality,” Hannibal says with a smirk.

Somehow, the tables have turned; Hannibal doesn’t seem so submissive anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait with this chapter! I rewrote this chapter about five times, and ended up throwing out all my ideas for where this fic was going and starting over. I really wanted to update once a week, but that's definitely not going to happen now.
> 
> Since I now have less of an idea where this is going, I'm going to update the tags at the beginning of every chapter, so you might want to check those before reading!

The ride into town only takes half an hour, but the journey feels much longer to Will. He and Hannibal sit in silence, Will’s jaw clenched as he focuses on Hannibal. The woods outside are lush, punctuated with jutting rock formations, but Will can’t appreciate their beauty, not with Hannibal sitting next to him.

He waits for Hannibal to let his guard down, hoping to get his hands on Hannibal’s knife, hoping to maybe even get his hands on the wheel or around Hannibal’s throat. But Hannibal keeps sending Will shrewd glances, one hand on the wheel and the other hand gripped hard around the hilt of his pocketknife.

Slowly, the thick shrouds of trees outside the truck disappear and houses start appearing outside the windows instead. After driving down various lonely, barren backroads, Hannibal clicks on the turn signal and they find themselves in a quaint New England town. He parks the car outside an old, towering church, then turns to look at Will.

His lips are slightly downturned, his eyes severe.

“I can tell you’re thinking about running,” Hannibal says, voice slow. “Don’t. I promise you that you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“Oh, I know what you’re capable of all right,” Will says.

Hannibal doesn’t deign to respond to that. Instead, he flicks his pocketknife closed, gets out of the car, then opens the passenger door for Will.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Will says sarcastically.

After Will exits the car, he watches Hannibal grab a wallet and a pack of cigarettes from the glove box before he slams the passenger door closed. Hannibal places a hand on the small of Will’s back as he takes out the wallet and offers it to Will.

“You’ll need this,” Hannibal says. “It contains all the identification you’ll require in the next few weeks. Don’t lose it.”

Will shivers despite himself, trying not to lean into Hannibal’s touch, fingers brushing Hannibal’s as he takes the wallet. As Will inspects it, Hannibal moves away, and Will hears the click of a lighter, then smells nicotine. Will coughs, turning around, and tries not to stare at the sleek picture Hannibal makes, looking for all the world like some gorgeous biker in his leather jacket, his strong hands holding the cigarette elegantly as he takes a drag.

“I never, ah, pictured you as a smoker,” Will says.

“I don’t smoke,” Hannibal says quietly. “I’ve made that fact well-known over the years. Now that I might be seen, it’s better that I’m remembered as smelling like smoke so that a seed of doubt is planted in others’ minds.”

“Ah,” Will says, not quite following Hannibal’s logic.

Somehow, if the police are looking for Hannibal, Will doesn’t think that something as insignificant as smelling of nicotine is going to get Hannibal off the hook.

He tries not to watch Hannibal hold the cigarette to his lips, tries not to watch Hannibal’s lips at all. Hannibal’s eyes flick to Will’s, watching him watch Hannibal’s lips, and he smirks.

“I assume you can put on a Southern accent?” he asks Will.

“Yes, sir,” Will responds in a lightly Southern accent, before he can think better of it.

Hannibal pauses, lips quirking up.

“Sir?” he asks.

Will shrugs, although he feels his face heating up.

“It’s a Southern thing,” he tries to explain. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“Hm,” Hannibal says, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Well, use your Southern accent from now on whenever you need to speak to someone. Although you might want to refrain from calling others ‘sir’ unless you want them to get ideas.”

Will nods, privately vowing not to put on any kind of accent. He wants to be seen for who he is.

“So where is this clinic?” Will asks, looking around.

All he sees is the church, nestled in a residential district near a small playground.

“It’s in the heart of the downtown area,” Hannibal says. “You’ll walk four blocks, make a right at the bank, then walk six more blocks. I doubt you can miss it.”

“You’re trusting me to go alone?” Will asks, so surprised he almost drops the wallet.

Hannibal glances over at him.

“You have a very serious head injury,” Hannibal says. “It only makes sense that you’d look out for your physical health above all things, before going to the police. I trust you.”

“You expect me to go to the police,” Will says, raising an eyebrow.

“I expect you to make the right choice,” Hannibal says.

And with that, Hannibal climbs back into the driver’s seat of the car. Will takes in his surroundings: it doesn’t seem like the church is open, and the playground is empty except for a girl playing on the swing set. He listens to the creaking of the swing, rhythmic like a metronome, as she pumps her legs up and down.

Will knows he could hypothetically knock on the door of any of the surrounding houses and ask for help. But Hannibal’s here watching, and Will isn’t ready for the bloodbath that would inevitably result. He makes his way downtown instead, feeling Hannibal’s eyes on him like a hawk watching its prey from afar.

He makes a right at the bank, as promised, in case Hannibal is still watching, but he doesn’t intend to head to the clinic. Instead, he looks around for a police station, for anywhere that looks like it would have a public phone where he could call 911.

This brief walk has him feeling much more out of shape than he realized he’d be. Each step he takes seems to make him weaker. He pauses outside a small diner to catch his breath, the world spinning worryingly as his vision starts to fade.

_Oh, fuck, not again,_ Will has time to think before the seizure drags him down.

* * *

Will blinks awake, smelling strong antiseptic and hearing something beeping distantly. He’s in a hospital bed, fully dressed but sans shoes. When he tries to get up, something jerks his arm back, and his wrist stings; he realizes that he’s connected to an IV.

“Hello?” he asks, looking around the bed for a button to call a nurse with.

He needs to get in touch with the police, and he doesn’t want to wait hours to be discharged from the hospital before he can do that. He needs to find a phone he can use, or better yet, sneak out of this hospital and go to the police himself.

“You’re awake,” a soft voice says.

Turning to the sound of the voice, he sees an attractive, dark-haired Asian woman sitting in a chair by the wall, frowning. Based on the fact that she’s wearing street clothes and not scrubs, Will doesn’t think she’s a nurse or another healthcare worker.

“Listen,” Will says, “My name is Will Graham, and I’m being held hostage. I need to use your phone.”

“You really do have amnesia,” she says, looking unimpressed. “I’m Chiyoh. We know each other.”

Will rips the IV from his wrist with a wince and sits up in bed, looking for his shoes.

“Good. I could really use some help,” Will says.

He gets out of bed, finding his boots on the floor beside the bed and reaching down to put them on.

“I can help you,” Chiyoh says. “I have a car waiting outside. I’ll take you to Jack.”

Will stops lacing up his boot and looks into her deep, dark eyes, wondering if he can trust her. Something he sees there worries him.

“No,” he says. “I need to talk to Jack first. Let me make the call.”

Chiyoh pauses, then takes a sleek iPhone out of her jacket pocket.

“Here,” she says, holding out the phone. “Call whoever you like.”

There’s something Will doesn’t like about her unaffected expression. But one thing he knows about Hannibal is that he always, always works alone. Will was an anomaly; on the day Hannibal gave Will his smile-shaped scar, Hannibal had waxed poetic about how even Will didn’t deserve his trust. What reason would Hannibal have to trust this woman?

He takes the phone from Chiyoh and types in Jack’s number, but there’s no dial tone, and the call doesn’t connect. Chiyoh’s phone doesn’t have any bars, he notices.

“There’s no reception,” Will says.

“I noticed,” Chiyoh says. “But I was able to get some outside earlier. Come with me.”

Will hesitates for a moment, then nods. He has no reason to trust Chiyoh, but no good reason not to trust her, either – and using her phone seems like the fastest way to get in touch with Jack. He follows Chiyoh through the winding hallways of the emergency room, past two thick double-doors and into the waiting room, then outside.

Finally, a few bars appear in the upper left of the screen. Will sighs with relief. He toys with calling 911 but opts to call Jack directly on his cell phone instead.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Then there’s a click, and Jack’s answering machine picks up.

“Damn it,” Will grumbles as he listens to the recorded message. “He’s not picking up.”

“Why don’t you leave him a message?” Chiyoh asks. “Let him know you are alive.”

“Good idea,” Will says, then waits for the beep. “Jack, this is Will Graham. I’m alive and I’m coming your way with, uh, Chiyoh. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

He disconnects the phone and hands it back to Chiyoh.

“Let me know the minute he calls back,” Will says.

“Of course,” Chiyoh says with a subtle smile. “I’m glad to hear you made up your mind to come with me after all.”

Will pauses. Something about this situation doesn’t seem quite right. But Chiyoh let him call Jack, even let him leave a message. If she was really working with Hannibal, would she have let him make that call?

“Let’s get going, then,” Will says. “I really need to talk to Jack.”

Chiyoh nods, then leads him to a nondescript taupe Toyota Camry sitting in the hospital parking lot. Will gets into the passenger seat, antsy as soon as Chiyoh locks the car from the inside.

It’s a relief once they reach the highway, because at least this way Will can tell where they are and where they’re going: they’re on the I-95, heading south through Connecticut. Chiyoh seems to be telling the truth; she’s taking him toward Quantico. Will tries to let himself relax in the passenger seat, feeling achy and exhausted. It’s been a long few days, and he’s only running on the few hours of sleep he got on the hard wood floor of the house he and Hannibal were staying in.

Hannibal. Will wonders what Hannibal is doing, where he’s going, if he’s fast on their tail.

“How did you know where to find me?” Will asks.

Chiyoh keeps her eyes on the road.

“A nurse recognized your face from television and alerted the authorities. I was one of them,” Chiyoh says curtly.

Will nods. He’s used to being in the news a lot, especially on TattleCrime, and now he has two recognizable facial scars. It makes sense that someone would have noticed him.

“How much do you remember?” Chiyoh asks, eyes still focused on the road.

Will shrugs.

“I remember going to prison for Hannibal’s crimes. I remember figuring out that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper. After that, I just remember waking up, uh, with Hannibal.”

He colors slightly, remembering that morning, remembering the feel of Hannibal’s strong arms around him.

“Your koibito,” Chiyoh says quietly. “I thought you two were only nakama. I was wrong.”

“What?” Will asks, not recognizing the foreign words.

“The words don’t have good English translations,” Chiyoh says. “A nakama is a friend who is closer than family. A koibito is someone you are intimate with, someone you might even love.”

Will starts. Surprisingly, he’s not alarmed that Chiyoh thinks he is intimate with Hannibal. He’s alarmed that Chiyoh thinks Hannibal is closer to him than his own family.

“What happened over the years I’m missing?” Will wonders aloud. “Was I wrong? Is he not the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“He is violent and brutal,” Chiyoh says, “and I think that is why you love him.”

Will’s head is spinning. None of this makes any sense to him.

“I have to kill him,” Will says, “before I remember anything that could stop me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, remember to check the tags before reading, because I update them before adding each chapter! This chapter contains NON-CONSENSUAL SPANKING. It's somewhat important to the plot, so if you want to skip that, I added a summary at the end. Thanks for reading!

Will drifts in and out of sleep throughout the long drive. He wakes up to find Chiyoh driving smoothly through a residential district that Will doesn’t recognize. Will yawns and stretches, watching the scenery roll past.

“You said you were taking me to Quantico,” Will says.

Chiyoh smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“We’re taking a slight detour,” Chiyoh says.

This doesn’t seem right, doesn’t feel right. Something clicks in Will’s brain, and he stops and stares at Chiyoh.

“How did you know I had amnesia?” he asks slowly. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

Chiyoh meets his gaze then, finally.

“Hannibal told me everything,” she says.

“No,” Will says. “You’re not -– you can’t be –- you told me you worked with Jack.”

“I never told you that. You assumed,” Chiyoh says.

Will goes to unlock his door, but the lock won’t budge, so he lunges for the wheel. Chiyoh gasps and pushes him away hard.

“You’re going to get us killed,” Chiyoh says, hands back on the wheel.

Will’s shaking with adrenaline, but he doesn’t move towards the wheel again.

“Where are you taking me?” Will growls.

“You have a dinner date with your koibito,” Chiyoh says.

They stop outside a house Will doesn’t recognize. Chiyoh parks the car, unlocks the doors, and steps outside. Will gets out of the car too, relishing what little freedom he has.

“Whose house is this?” he asks as Chiyoh rummages in the trunk.

“Bedelia’s,” Chiyoh says.

Will remembers Bedelia -– she was one of the only people who believed him about Hannibal. She had gone out of her way to say so. He remembers her whispering that she believed him, clinging to the bars of his cell as the guards had pulled her away.

He can’t be sure that Chiyoh is telling the truth. But if this is Bedelia’s house, he may just have found a way to Quantico.

Will bounds up the steps of the house and rings the doorbell before Chiyoh can stop him. She shoots him a glare, pulling a rifle out of the trunk. Will hopes she isn’t planning on pointing the rifle at him, but he’s distracted from this train of thought when Bedelia answers the door, looking as poised and elegant as always. When she sees Will, she shrinks back like she’s seen a ghost.

“No,” she says quietly.

“Bedelia,” Will says. “I need your help.”

“Never,” Bedelia says.

She moves to close the door, her hands shaking slightly. Will, desperate, wedges his way inside the house and shuts the door behind him. Bedelia takes a few steps back, heels clinking on the wood floor of the foyer.

“I just need a ride to Quantico. That’s all I’m asking you,” Will says.

Bedelia shakes her head, retreating further into the house.

“I’m not playing your games anymore. Leave,” she says forcefully.

“This isn’t a game,” Will says, following her. “This is life or death. You’re the only one who understands what Hannibal is really like. You’re the only one who knows how deadly serious this is.”

Bedelia glowers.

“Whatever you’re scheming, you can do it without me,” she says. “I won’t live like that again, prepared to be consumed at any and every moment.”

“I’m not going to _consume_ you,” Will says, exasperated. “I’m trying to get Hannibal caught, get him imprisoned or killed.”

Bedelia takes small a step closer, looks into Will’s eyes.

“You knew what Hannibal was like when you broke him out of prison because you couldn’t wait to be his bride again. If you weren’t prepared for the consequences of your actions, I can’t help you,” she says icily.

“I did _what_?” Will asks.

He can’t imagine finally getting Hannibal where he wants him only to break him out and set him free. He can’t imagine having so much chemistry with Hannibal that even Bedelia acknowledges their relationship and calls him Hannibal’s bride. The more he learns about his past self, the more he knows he needs to act now, before he recovers his memories.

Will is so preoccupied, so lost in thought, that he doesn’t see Bedelia take the pistol out of her purse until it’s too late.

“Did you think I’d go quietly?” Bedelia asks once she has the pistol trained on Will.

“Whoa,” Will says, putting his hands up. “I’m unarmed. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Good,” Bedelia says, and pulls the trigger.

Will shouts and staggers backwards, ears ringing loudly with echoes of the shot. He registers that he’s been hit in the shoulder as he hears glass breaking. Turning his head, whip-fast, he sees that Chiyoh has shot at Bedelia through the window. He’s not sure if the shot found its target or not; he can’t see Bedelia anymore.

Clutching his bloody shoulder, he opens the front door and stumbles out of the house, right into Hannibal’s waiting arms.

Everything is hazy from there, because suddenly Will is back in Florence, with Hannibal stitching his wound shut, hovering closer than he needs to, the touches feeling more intimate than surgical. Now, in the present, Hannibal’s hands are warm as he helps Will back inside, into the living room, where Hannibal guides Will onto the couch, then turns back furiously to the room Bedelia had retreated into.

“She’s on the back porch,” Chiyoh tells Hannibal.

“Stay where you are,” Hannibal tells Will, affixing him with a stern gaze.

Will doesn’t think he can move, and he’s still half in Florence, Hannibal’s breath hot on his shoulder, the pain somehow bearable if it means Will can be this close to Hannibal.

“We’re conjoined,” he mumbles.

That stops Hannibal in his tracks, and he turns to look into Will’s eyes. Seeing the way Hannibal’s eyes burn hotly into Will’s, Chiyoh sighs and moves further into the house, hot on Bedelia’s tail while Hannibal remains preoccupied with Will.

“You remember,” Hannibal says breathlessly.

Will groans, leaning back into the couch cushions, shaking minutely. His shoulder had already been bothering him before he was shot; now the pain is white-hot and intolerable.

“Barely,” Will says. “Have I –- have I been shot in this shoulder before?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, “and I tended to your wound as I’ll tend to it now. Be still for me, my love.”

He feels Hannibal’s touch on his shoulder, impossibly soft, and he closes his eyes as Hannibal’s fingers probe at the wound and then apply pressure on his bleeding shoulder.

“Don’t call me that,” Will says, bile threatening to rise in his throat. “I’m not -– we’re not –- you’re the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“I have been called that,” Hannibal says gently, running a hand down Will’s cheek, “and I have been called other things, too. Il Mostro. Hannibal the Cannibal. You have called me your lover, your soulmate. Freddie Lounds has called me your husband. Take your pick.”

“No,” Will says weakly. “I won’t give in just because I remember needing you like –- like I’d been missing you all my life. Jack knows I’m with Chiyoh. He’ll come for me, and if he makes it here before I strangle the life out of you, he’ll lock you up again.”

Hannibal laughs lightly.

“You’re not going to strangle the life out of me now, not in this state,” Hannibal says.

He lifts his shirt over his head, and Will tries not to look at the exposed skin of his stomach or the mass of his chest hair, his peaked nipples. Then Hannibal undoes his belt.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” Will asks.

“I’m making you a tourniquet,” Hannibal explains. “Remain still.”

He wraps the shirt around Will’s shoulder, using the belt to tie the makeshift tourniquet into place over Will’s shoulder and around his chest, then applies more pressure on the wound. Will winces.

“Rest, and take this,” Hannibal says, proffering two pills that Will assumes to be hydrocodone.

Will, exhausted, opens his mouth obediently. Hannibal slips the pills inside, and Will swallows, shivering. despite himself. There’s something intoxicating about Hannibal’s touch, something he can’t get enough of. But all this means is that he has to hurry to kill Hannibal before he remembers even more.

* * *

Hannibal seems to have other plans, coming back into the room carrying a heavily drugged Bedelia and a sharp kitchen knife. He holds the knife out to Will, hilt first.

“I wanted you to be the one to kill her,” Hannibal says, “since killing Bedelia was your idea, after all.”

Will blinks, shrinking back instead of taking the knife.

“Why would I want to kill Bedelia?” he asks.

“Bedelia was always meant to be your victim, not mine. I assume you were jealous of her,” Hannibal says.

“Jealous?” Will asks.

“The first time I ran away, I took Bedelia instead of you,” Hannibal says, looking out the window. “I’m not sure you’ll ever forgive me for that.”

“I… wanted to run away with you?” Will asks, desperately trying to understand.

“You wanted to run away with me very much. But you decided to betray me, so I couldn’t let you come with. Instead, I gave you that scar and left you bleeding on the kitchen floor,” Hannibal says.

Will feels a stab of phantom pain in the curved scar in his abdomen. He doesn’t have to ask which scar Hannibal is talking about; some part of him understands.

“Sounds, ah, dramatic,” Will says.

He can barely imagine wanting to run away with Hannibal or wanting anything to do with the man he knows to be a serial murderer. Hannibal’s words sound more like a fairy tale than a true story.

“Oh, it was,” Hannibal says. “I held you close, like a lover, as I gutted you. You craved intimacy from me even then.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Will says. “I’ve never -– I don’t crave intimacy from you.”

“You did,” Hannibal says simply. “Some part of you, I think, still does.”

Will groans, shutting his eyes momentarily. There’s a fragment of truth in Hannibal’s words: Hannibal’s touch had been soft and calming, and Will wants more of it.

“Tell me, Dr. Lecter, why I’d crave intimacy from someone I knew to be the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will says.

Hannibal’s lips turn up in a small smile.

“You learned that we’re not that different, you and I,” he says.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Will asks, leaning forward.

He’s tired of people thinking he’s a murderer just because he thinks about death for a living. He’s tired of people seeing the darkness in him and making assumptions. He’s tired, plain and simple.

“Don’t you feel it?” Hannibal asks. “Don’t you feel it in every beat of your heart: your need for blood, for control, for violence?”

“I know who I am,” Will says. “And I’m not a killer.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hannibal says, with that small smile again.

Will feels unsettled, uneasy, wrong.

“Don’t kill Bedelia,” he says. “She did nothing wrong.”

“Even when she shot you?” Hannibal asks with a smirk.

Will pauses to think about that, anger flaring when he remembers Bedelia aiming the pistol at him and shooting.

“Take her leg,” Will says. “But keep her alive.”

Hannibal seems pleased by this declaration.

“I knew you had vengeance in your heart,” he says.

Will groans.

“I’ve always had vengeance in my heart, yeah. But I’m not a killer. Isn’t this proof enough?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, “this is excellent proof of your true nature.”

He smiles, teeth sharp.

* * *

As always, Hannibal goes all out for their dinner. He places Bedelia’s leg, cooked in taro leaves, on the center of the table, surrounded with pineapple slices and pieces of blackened mahi mahi. Will expects Hannibal to pour him red wine after he sits down, but Hannibal proffers what looks like a Mai Tai instead, complete with a tiny umbrella.

Instead of the typical classical music playing in the background of his feasts, Hannibal is quietly playing what sounds like Native Hawaiian folk music over Bedelia’s speakers. The steady drumbeats are soothing.

“Where’s Chiyoh?” Will asks, seeing that the table is only set for three.

Bedelia, eyes glazed, is already seated at the head of the table.

“Chiyoh has her own plans,” Hannibal says. “I didn’t expect her to stay. But you will be staying, of course.”

“Of course,” Will says, and takes a bite of his food, making eye contact with Bedelia as he does so.

He smiles.

* * *

After dinner, Will retreats to the couch again, the painkillers making him especially tired. He wakes up to the couch cushions dipping with added weight, to Hannibal’s gentle touch on his cheek. It’s pitch black, and there’s pain searing through his shoulder into his chest and his neck, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is.

“Shh,” Hannibal says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Bedelia’s been letting me sleep on her couch this whole time?” Will asks groggily.

Hannibal laughs curtly.

“Bedelia is still heavily drugged at the moment. I’m afraid her hospitality is a given,” Hannibal says.

There’s something intimate about Hannibal now, an added electricity to his presence that wasn’t there before. Will shivers.

“Now that you are awake,” Hannibal says, “I believe there is the matter of your recklessness to attune to.”

“My recklessness?” Will asks.

Hannibal’s eyes narrow.

“You were almost killed because you wanted to escape my presence so badly,” he says. “I believe Bedelia was aiming for your heart.”

Will sits up slowly, eyes adjusting slightly to the darkness, feeling the weight of Hannibal sitting next to him. He tries to stretch his arms over his head, wincing when his shoulder won’t allow the movement.

“I don’t understand who I am that someone I once trusted would want me dead,” Will whispers.

“You are exactly who you are, and that is beautiful,” Hannibal says. “I wish you’d stop fighting your true nature.”

“I’m not fighting my true nature,” Will grits out. “I’m fighting the person I was in the past.”

“Whatever or whomever you are fighting, I believe it is time for a reckoning of my own,” Hannibal says.

“Oh?” Will asks.

He has a sudden vision of Hannibal cutting into his flesh, serving his liver alongside a sprig of garnish.

“Get up,” Hannibal says. “Then lay back down over my knee.”

Will doesn’t know whether to sigh in relief, or laugh, or go for Hannibal’s throat. He settles for gnashing his teeth together.

“I’m not a child. You can’t spank me because I’ve been bad,” Will says.

“I believe the phrase I’m looking for now is ‘try me,’” Hannibal says. “You are injured and unarmed, and I am a larger man than you are. Do you really think you can fight me?”

Will sighs, resigned, and gets up.

“You better believe I’ll fight you if you try anything worse than spanking,” he says.

There is a certain gleam in Hannibal’s eye, a proud satisfaction.

“You may disrobe now,” Hannibal says, “although since you are injured, I’ll allow you to keep your shirt on.”

“Thanks,” Will says sarcastically, inelegantly shucking off his pants and boxer briefs.

He allows himself to settle over Hannibal’s lap, his nude thighs and soft cock connecting with Hannibal’s pressed slacks in a way that makes Will swallow.

The first slap comes as a surprise. Will isn’t ready for it, hasn’t been bracing himself, and he yelps despite himself.

“You will prioritize your personal safety from now on,” Hannibal says, voice low. “You will not be rash. Do you understand?”

“You’re not my master,” Will says. “You can smack me around all you like, but I’ll never agree to your rules.”

Hannibal growls, slapping Will again, harder than the last one.

“You have a breaking point. Everyone does,” Hannibal says. “And I’ll find it.”

He slaps Will again, and again, finding a rhythm. The slaps burn, but the skin-to-skin contact feels better than Will expected, and mortifyingly, he notices that his cock is hardening. As soon as he realizes that he’s hard, Hannibal must realize, too. The slaps stop, and he hears Hannibal’s quick intake of breath, then the unmistakable sound of him sniffing the air, scenting Will and his arousal.

“I never expected that you might like this,” Hannibal says.

Will braces himself, but instead of another slap, Hannibal’s hand gently caresses Will’s ass. Will bites down on his lower lip, trying not to moan.

“I’d like to give you pleasure,” Hannibal whispers.

Will pauses, sizing up the situation. _Fuck it_ , he decides. He’s hard, and Hannibal is warm, and his touch feels good.

“I’d, ah, like that too,” he says, his cheeks burning.

He knows he’s had sex with Hannibal before, but he doesn’t remember the first time, and the second time, he’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t. It feels monumental to agree to this, to consent to sex with Hannibal -– someone he knows to be a serial killer -– entirely of his own volition.

He hears rustling above him as Hannibal leans down, then feels Hannibal’s hot breath on his ass and the lave of Hannibal’s wet tongue on his hole.

“Oh, Jesus,” Will says, rutting his slickening cock against Hannibal’s pants. “More.”

“Get on the floor on your stomach,” Hannibal says, voice rough.

Will complies easily, all worries of Hannibal cannibalizing him dissipating from his head as he prepares for Hannibal to eat him in an entirely different way. He spreads his legs shamelessly, needy, as Hannibal crawls between his legs, leans down, and opens Will’s cheeks with one hand as he delves back in with his tongue.

It’s good, so good. Will’s been rimmed before, but always as a prelude to sex, never something to be enjoyed on its own. And Hannibal certainly seems to be enjoying himself, panting and moaning between licks, swirling his tongue and pressing inside like he enjoys Will’s taste.

“Oh, God, Hannibal,” Will moans. “I want -– I want -– “

“What is it you want, Will?” Hannibal asks before he licks a stripe up Will’s hole and presses back inside.

“You,” Will answers honestly. “Ah, fuck me, Dr. Lecter.”

He feels Hannibal shudder, then hears him unzip his fly.

Will draws up on his hands and knees, looking beyond his shoulder into the darkness to see Hannibal spit into his palm, then palm his hard cock.

“We don’t have lube,” Hannibal says.

“I like it rough,” Will says honestly.

He’s already hurting, the wound on his shoulder raging and his ass cheeks burning from Hannibal’s slaps. What’s a little more pain?

Hannibal starts to press in with a finger and then –-

“Freeze,” comes the unmistakable voice of Jack Crawford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Hannibal spanks Will, Will decides to have sex with Hannibal, but before they can start, they're interrupted by Jack Crawford.
> 
> Don't have anal sex without lube! I only wrote it that way because I was lazy and knew they were going to be interrupted.


	5. Chapter 5

Will is on his hands and knees on Bedelia’s living room carpet, arching his back to give Hannibal greater access to his naked ass. Hannibal’s behind him, shirtless with his fly open, pressing a finger gently against Will’s hole. And Jack Crawford is looming in the entryway, gun pointed straight at Hannibal.

“Freeze,” Jack Crawford says loudly.

“Won’t you let us get into a less compromising position first?” Hannibal asks, nonplussed.

He circles his finger around Will’s hole leisurely. Will shoots him a look over his shoulder.

“Fine. Stand up, both of you, hands above your heads,” Jack says.

Will complies, face heating up as the new position brings his hard cock out into the open. He’s really starting to regret his impulsive decision to sleep with Hannibal tonight.

Hannibal’s cock is free too, jutting out of his slacks hard and uncut, but Hannibal seems completely at ease with his partial nudity, looking as calm as ever.

Jack, however, has never looked more tense. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead as he makes eye contact with Will.

“Jack,” Will starts. “Listen, I -–”

“No,” Jack says forcefully, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear anything from you, Will. You betrayed my trust. I believed in you. And now I find out that you’ve been, uh, very literally sleeping with the enemy?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Will says.

“Quiet!” Jack bellows. “Don’t talk. I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

“He’s not lying,” Hannibal says. “He’s suffering amnesia and a serious head injury.”

“You know what? Right now, I don’t care. All I care about is bringing you two to justice. Now get your goddamn pants on, Will,” Jack says.

Will reaches down for his pants and his boxer-briefs. While Jack’s eyes are fixed on him, Will sees Hannibal reach into his own pants pocket and bring out his cigarettes and lighter.

Will pauses, confused. He remembers the last time Hannibal had smoked, the way the nicotine had seemed to seep into his bones, the way he’d fallen head-on into a seizure not long after -– the way the nicotine had triggered a seizure –-

“No,” Will says, putting two and two together. “No, no, no.”

But Hannibal has already lit up the cigarette.

“I _told_ you not to move,” Jack growls.

“And I told you Will was unwell,” Hannibal says, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“He’s right. I’m about to have a seizure, Jack,” Will says, sounding calmer than he feels.

Hannibal turns, sending Will a bright smile.

“You figured it out. I knew you would, you clever thing,” Hannibal says.

“Would you two _be quiet_?” Jack asks, clicking off the safety of his gun.

Will swallows. The room is beginning to lurch around him, and he falls to his knees.

“Get up now! Hands above your head!“ he hears Jack belt out as the room fades to black.

* * *

Will wakes up on Bedelia’s couch again, groaning. It’s a little lighter outside now, a hint of sepia-toned dawn brightening the sky. The room is still filled with deep shadows, looking eerie in the low light.

Jack is sprawled out on the floor on his stomach, covered in blood from a gunshot wound on his side. Hannibal is busy stitching up a cut on his back; Will guesses that Hannibal has taken at least one of Jack’s kidneys.

“Why did you have to kill him?” Will asks weakly, feeling sick.

“Oh, he’s still alive, just sedated,” Hannibal answers pleasantly. “I thought perhaps you could do the honors of ending his life.”

Will sits up with a groan and comes to stand over Hannibal, watching him work.

“You keep assuming I’m a killer,” Will says. “But I’m not.”

“You were,” Hannibal says, not looking at Will, still engaged in his work.

“I’m not that person anymore. I’m sorry,” Will says.

Hannibal turns to look at him, really look at him, making deep and soulful eye contact, his eyes shining slightly with emotion. Will feels like he stops breathing.

“It’s your decision whether you come with me or stay here, in this life you’ve made for yourself,” Hannibal says finally, never breaking eye contact.

“What, you’re not going to hold me prisoner anymore?” Will scoffs, looking down.

Hannibal holds very still.

“Chiyoh gave me your medical file,” he says. “You’re healing well. There’s no reason why you should still have amnesia. But you do. The longer one has amnesia, the less likely it is that their memories will ever return.”

“Oh,” Will says.

“There’s a saying that if you love something, you should let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t return, it never was,” Hannibal continues.

He moves closer to Will, tentatively cupping his cheek with a bloody hand, like he’s afraid of Will rebuking him.

“I didn’t think someone like you was capable of love,” Will says quietly, looking into Hannibal’s eyes.

“You let me go once, Will, and I came back to you,” Hannibal says, tongue coming out to wet his lips.

Will’s eyes follow the movement of Hannibal’s tongue of their own accord.

“I don’t remember any of this,” Will says. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You can’t,” Hannibal says. “Choose wisely, because there’s no changing your mind after you make this decision. You’ll never find me again once you set me loose.”

“I don’t plan to set you loose,” Will says. “I plan to lock you up somewhere you’ll never be able to escape from.”

“Still?” Hannibal asks, mouth turning down into a frown. “You were about to let me inside you, Will.”

“Not emotionally,” Will says, frustrated. “It was all physical, just physical. You were close, and you were warm, and I was… hungry.”

“You were hungry for me,” Hannibal corrects.

Will glares.

“I have _never_ been hungry for you,” Will says. “You might want this, whatever this is. But I don’t. I never have. You’re mistaking me for the person I used to be. And you know what? I don’t see how he could’ve wanted you, either.”

Hannibal looks down, withdrawing his bloody hand from Will’s cheek. Will starts to consider whether maybe he has gone too far, but then Hannibal meets his gaze again.

“Fine,” Hannibal says.

He reaches down into his pants pocket, pulling out another cigarette.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Will says, and he lunges.

Hannibal pushes him off easily, pushes him back against the wall. Hannibal’s hands and forearms are covered in thick blood, so dark red it’s almost black, and blood squelches on Will’s wrists as Hannibal pins them over Will’s head. Will’s shoulder protests sharply, the pain burning through his arm.

“You can’t fight me,” Hannibal growls. “Not injured like this. Not without your memories.”

Will slackens, knowing when he’s lost. Hannibal is a prolific serial killer, someone who knows how to hunt and cut and kill, and Will’s just a profiler with a head injury and a bullet lodged in his bad shoulder.

“Let me at least say goodbye,” Will says.

“Hm?” Hannibal asks, tilting his head slightly.

Hannibal is standing so close, leaning down, and it’s easy to press closer, to meet Hannibal’s lips with his own. Hannibal gasps lightly into his lips, and Will takes the opportunity to venture inside Hannibal’s lips with his tongue. Hannibal meets Will’s tongue with his own, and for one brief moment, Will finds bliss.

Then Hannibal bites down much too hard on Will’s lower lip, filling Will’s mouth with the sweet-salty copper tang of blood. He draws back, releasing Will’s wrists.

“Ouch,” Will groans.

“Let me leave now and I won’t induce a seizure,” Hannibal says, eyes boring into Will’s.

Will feels like he can’t breathe, like all he can do is look into Hannibal’s eyes and find the world there.

“Okay,” Will says, breathless. “But know that wherever you go, I’ll find you and catch you.”

“You will never see me again,” Hannibal says with a sad smile.

With one last look at Will, he turns and saunters into the foyer, then out the door of Bedelia’s house. Will briefly wonders how far Hannibal will get before someone calls the cops. He’s shirtless and covered in blood, looking for all the world like the villain in a slasher flick.

Will lets him have a minute’s head start, as if they were kids playing hide-and-seek instead of two grown adults with an enormous body count between them. Then Will goes to where Jack is lying in a heap of blood on Bedelia’s carpeted living room floor.

The first thing he looks for is Jack’s gun, but Hannibal has already taken that. He finds a cell phone in the pocket of Jack’s coat, which he uses to call 911. Then he collapses on the couch, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“You weren’t lying,” a voice says from behind him.

Will turns. It’s Bedelia, limping heavily, one of her legs noticeably missing.

“Of course I wasn’t lying,” Will says, annoyance creeping into his voice.

He’s still upset that Bedelia shot him, even now that he’s eaten part of her leg.

“I heard every word you exchanged with Hannibal,” she says. “The drug wore off in my system hours ago. I was pretending to be unconscious so he wouldn’t bother me.”

“Do you often eavesdrop on conversations that are none of your business?” Will asks.

Bedelia ignores the insult, perching next to Will on the couch. Faintly, in the distance, Will hears sirens, sounding far away enough that he still has a minute to collect himself.

“You once asked me,” Bedelia says, turning to look at Will, “if Hannibal was in love with you.”

“Well, he’s not capable of feeling that emotion, so there’s no use rehashing that conversation,” Will says, still irritated.

“I told you then,” Bedelia continues as if she hasn’t heard Will, “that he daily feels a stab of hunger for you, and finds nourishment at the very sight of you.”

“What?” Will asks, nose crinkling in confusion. “But he’s –- “

“There’s not yet a diagnostic category for what Hannibal is,” Bedelia interrupts. “But he feels his love for you to the depth and breadth and height his soul can reach.”

“Why me?” Will asks hopelessly. “What did I do to deserve love from someone like Hannibal?”

“You saw him, and you loved him too,” Bedelia says.

Will is about to ask more, but the frenzied whir of sirens is getting louder and louder, and he can see an ambulance followed by a squad of police cars outside. He gets up to open the front door for the flood of cops and EMTs who soon come out of their vehicles.

“We have three people injured, one critically, and Hannibal Lecter’s still out there,” Will tells them as they hurry inside.

“Hannibal Lecter did this? He’s alive?” one of the officers asks him, shock evident on his face.

“He only left a minute ago,” Will explains. “He should still be out there. He’s shirtless and bloody. You can’t miss him.”

“How many bodies are there, approximately?” another officer asks him.

“Uh, zero,” Will answers. “He left us all alive.”

“You sure it was Lecter? It’s highly unusual for him to show mercy,” the cop says.

Will bites down a laugh.

“Oh, I’m sure he was merciful this time,” he says. “I’d bet my life on it.”

* * *

Will winds up in the hospital again, in a separate wing from both Bedelia and Jack, so the doctors can take the bullet out of his arm. Once the painkiller-induced high wears off enough for Will to stand up, he prowls down the hallway, searching for Jack’s room.

It isn’t long before he finds it. He’s glad to see that Jack is alive, sitting up in his hospital bed, looking ragged and weary, dark bags under his eyes.

“Will,” Jack says. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

Jack isn't smiling, and Will swallows.

“I came to apologize,” Will says.

“It’s not like it was you who took my kidney –- was it?” Jack asks, eyes narrowing.

“I thought you knew me better than that,” Will says. “My only crime is finding Hannibal attractive and being easily swayed by his powers of persuasion.”

He looks away, embarrassed, remembering the position Jack had found them in.

Jack sighs.

“I heard you beg for him to sleep with you. Seems to me like the whole thing was your idea, not his,” Jack says.

“Look, I know I made the wrong choice,” Will says, meeting Jack's gaze. “It was a moment of passion. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t,” Jack agrees, frowning. “But I guess I owe you for saving my life. Heard it was you who called 911.”

“Don’t mention it,” Will says.

Jack sits up a little straighter in his bed, groaning when he moves.

“How did you survive?” Jack asks. “After he pushed you off the cliff? Or did you push him?”

“He pushed me off a cliff? No wonder I’m aching,” Will mutters. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I really do have amnesia.”

“That’s convenient,” Jack says, frowning.

“I must’ve hit my head really hard when he pushed me,” Will says. “I have a pretty bad head injury. Ask any of the doctors.”

“Right,” Jack says. “Well, I’m pretty badly injured too, and I’m getting tired, so how about we catch up later?”

Jack looks away from Will, taking a sip from the cup of ice water that sits on the table next to his bed. It's clear he wants Will to leave, but Will hovers in the doorway awkwardly.

“You don’t want me to consult on this? I want to help you catch Hannibal,” Will says.

Jack looks up, doing a double take.

“You slept with him, but now you want to help catch him?” Jack asks slowly.

“My feelings for him are, uh, complicated,” Will says. “But I want to see him behind bars more than anyone.”

Jack looks at him, eyes full of distrust and suspicion.

“I’ll think about letting you work on this case, but given the circumstances, I don’t think it’s likely,” Jack says. “Now go back to your room and get some sleep. You need it.”

Will nods, feeling apprehensive. If Jack doesn’t trust him, who will? Alana? Beverly? He needs to find out who his allies are, and fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life is getting really busy, so it might be a little while before I post the next chapter, but know that I'm getting this written as fast as I possibly can! Also, remember that characters' opinions do not reflect my opinions.


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